Among those who call themselves witches, there are various types. Least troublesome are the humans who have adopted Wicca as their religion. Some of them have a spark of power, enough to enrich their faith, but not so much to attract the attention of bigger and nastier things.

Then there are the white witches—people born to the witch families who have chosen to do no harm. Like the mundane-born witches, white witches are usually not very powerful—because witch magic gets its power from death, pain, and sacrifice, and white witches have chosen to eschew that.

Most witches of any power are black witches. They smell of it, some more than others. There are black witches who skirt the doing of actual evil. Elizaveta Arkadyevna, our pack’s witch, is one of those. She is very powerful as witches—even as black witches—go. But, as I understand it, skirting evil is difficult, time-consuming, and requires a lot more from a practitioner than true black magic does. It is so much easier to use the suffering of others to make magic, and the results are more predictable.

This witch—and as we closed toward the throne, the smell got stronger and stronger, making my supposition more and more likely—this witch stank of the blackest magic. In her neighborhood, pets and small children would go missing, and even the occasional homeless man. I was betting that the iron chains binding the forest lord were hers.

The room the others saw, for all its height, was not a terribly big one. The cave I could see was bigger, but almost half of it was taken up by the forest lord behind the throne. It didn’t take long for us to reach the dais.

The fairy queen sat on the edge of the seat of the silver throne and reached down to pet her witch—who didn’t seem to appreciate it much. The queen’s wings fluttered as she sat, then folded so she could lean against the back of the throne.

Her eyelids fluttered with a faint wrip-wrip sound. Once I was facing her, I could tell that her eyes were just . . . wrong. She would stare and stare, then blink rapidly. It was hard to watch.

“Jesse,” she said. “Tell me your name?”

“Jessica Tamarind Hauptman,” Jesse said, her voice not quite right.

“Jessica,” said the queen. “Isn’t that a pretty name? Come sit at my feet, Jessica.” She looked at me and smiled as Jesse did as she was bid.

The queen leaned forward to pet her head—Jesse seemed to appreciate it more than the witch had. “She is half-mine already,” the queen told me. “Your young man, Gabriel, and I have already done this as well. Haven’t we?”

“Yes, my queen,” he murmured tightly.

“I haven’t collared him because of our bargain, Mercedes Thompson, but while a human is in my presence, unless I suppress my magic, they belong to me. It was not smart of you to bring me another thrall.” She patted Jesse one last time, then sat back. “But that is not all you brought into my Elphame. Tell me, Mercedes, how is it that you managed to bring not only a fae, but a wolf with you when you were not to speak of this to them?”

I gave her the short version. “I taped our phone conversation.”

“I see.” She looked like she’d swallowed a lemon, but didn’t complain. “So, Mercedes Thompson, you would cry bargain.” She smiled coolly. “You want to exchange the Silver Borne for your life?”

Ariana gave me a sharp look, but I knew how to listen—and I knew about fairy bargains that left you ruing the day you made them, even before I’d read Phin’s book. If I wasn’t really careful, I could bargain the book for my life—and end up wishing myself dead. For instance, I could get out of here and be forced to leave Jesse and Gabriel behind.

“I don’t know,” I said, squirming under the weight of the fairy queen’s gaze. I bit the inside of my lip until it bled—and it hurt because human-shaped teeth aren’t sharp enough to cut through skin easily.

“Samuel,” I said, “a kiss for courage and clear-seeing, my love?”

Samuel turned to me, startled—a kiss was probably the last thing that he’d been thinking of. I stood on my tiptoes and damn near had to climb him to get to his mouth. I clamped my open lips to his and tried to get as much blood into his mouth as I could. After the barest instant he seemed to understand what I was doing. He participated fully, licked my lip, and set me down gently.

I hoped the blood would work as it had in the bookstore, and that he saw what I did. It was hard to say from Samuel’s reaction, but I thought it had. Maybe it wouldn’t matter, but, outside of the gun in my shoulder holster and the one in the small of Jesse’s back, Samuel was our best weapon against the fae. Maybe he was better than the guns because he’d be a lot harder to stop. It couldn’t hurt to have him know what he was fighting.

“Very affecting,” the queen said, sounding bored. “Are you courageous and clear-sighted enough to give me the Silver Borne yet?”

“That is not a bargain,” I said, trying to keep her from seeing the blood on my mouth. “It is an exchange. I would consider such an exchange only if my comrades are allowed to leave. It is having them leave here safely and soon that I’m interested in bargaining for.”

“A true bargain?” she said. “Do you play an instrument?”

The piano and I have a hate-hate relationship. I didn’t consider that playing, and I know my piano teacher hadn’t either. “No.”

“A different bargain, then. You hold something of my choosing while it changes. For each time it changes, I release one person.”

She snapped her finger, and the witch muttered to herself, and the fae nearest us—a short and fine-boned creature with skin like a peach and pinkish green hair—burst into flame. It wasn’t glamour because the room didn’t change. They were real flames even though they didn’t seem to hurt the fae.

“She can’t hold flame, without dying,” said Ariana. She hadn’t looked at Samuel or me since I kissed him. I don’t know if she suspected something was up—or if she thought we were lovers. “And that breaks the heart of the bargain. It must be something that is possible—however unlikely—for the challenger to accomplish.”

“Fine,” said the queen. “If you are so particular, Silver, you may be the challenger.” She laughed, and the roots in the ceiling writhed as the sound of bells echoed in the room. “Of course I knew who you were, dear Silver—how could you think otherwise? Are there so many of us who chose to live so disfigured by the fangs of hounds and wolves? No. Only Silver. So you may take this bargain, and the alternative is that I will kill this almost-mortal woman who is not so human as your Phin or the boy. Half-blood is not human enough to be saved by the guesting laws of the Elphame.”

Ariana didn’t seem to hear the queen’s taunts. Instead, she said clearly and slowly, “I take hold of this fae, who will change—the first shape of fire counts as one. After that, for every time he changes, one of my comrades will go free. He will change five more times, three minutes each form, and if I succeed, all shall leave. If I don’t, one leaves for each shape I hold.”

As she was talking, Ariana set Phin down next to Gabriel. Even under the queen’s thrall, Gabriel put a hand on Phin’s shoulder to steady him.

“Four times,” said the queen. “Five shapes. I will not let go of Mercedes Thompson, who holds the Silver Borne.”

“It’s all right,” I told Ariana. “I’m a survivor. Ask anyone. I can deal with the queen about the book when all of you are safe.”

“Six forms,” said Ariana. “One for each. It is in the rules. ‘The bargain requested, all prisoners invested in the outcome tested.’ ”

The poetry didn’t flow well, but I suppose that it didn’t need to be very good poetry to record the rules of a fairy queen.

The queen’s eyes fluttered in irritation. I had a hard time not looking away—or blinking too fast myself.

“Agreed,” she snarled. “But Mercedes is the last to be freed and your grandson first.”